


Frantic

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Books, Burning, Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly ponders on books and is distressed when a burning takes place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frantic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Feuilly Week. It is the author's first attempt at writing Feuilly. Feedback much appreciated.

Feuilly was not in the habit of reading while walking. Gamins could very easily pick his pockets, or a passing fiacre could catch the end of his jacket, but he was much too engrossed in the subject of his reading that for the moment, it did not matter. The book was Combeferre’s, and he had readily lent it to him upon spying that his eyes lingered on it on the first day that it was brought to the Musain. Feuilly had given his word that the book would be returned today, but when he flipped through the pages one last time, a paragraph had caught his eye, and the next thing he knew, he was trudging on the streets of Paris while attempting to get to the end of the page.

The paragraph in question described the multiple burnings of a prestigious library in Egypt. The library, having gathered works that were thought to be profane, was repeatedly put to the torch. Whether the burnings were intentional or not, the library had ultimately fallen into ruin in the middle of the seventh century. The author called it “the ultimate symbol of destruction of cultural heritage”. Feuilly read this particular passage and became lost in the image of burning scrolls, of papyrus being scorched, of destroyed works that had been the result of years of copying and collecting scriptures from across lands. He did not concern himself with the how and why, or even the what, only that it was. Feuilly did not invest himself on whether the structure was burned by a passing fire carried by the breeze, or if the scrolls truly contained malicious content. To him, the burning of books, whatever they contained, was criminal.

He remembered the first book that he had ever read. It was a pamphlet of hymns that had been thrown forgotten in the ground. He risked his hand being trampled and retrieved the leaflet. It had been a herculean task, but he taught himself how to read it. Once he could fathom the words, the songs that spoke of mercy and deliverance, of a better life, he wept. He had the pamphlet still, perfectly preserved and safe. He imagined it on fire and shuddered.

When Feuilly entered the backroom of the Musain, he was welcomed by a jovial string of greetings from Jehan. Overpowering his voice and reciting names of famous men that Feuilly did not know was Grantaire. Beside him, Bossuet attempted order. In another corner, Joly and Bahorel played dominoes. Feuilly felt uneasy upon seeing the pile of coins tossed frivolously on the center of the table. His eyes lingered then on a debating Combeferre and Courfeyrac. It seemed to be a lively contest, until Courfeyrac threw a crumpled wad of paper into the fireplace.

Afterwards, if one were to request an account of what happened that day, he would not arrive at a consensus. Each man would have told him a different story, having been in the thick of events before their intoxicated minds could keep up. Only a few things were agreed upon by all: that an anguished intake of breath was heard, that Courfeyrac lost his balance as a shadow lunged forward and hit his shoulder, and that a mighty wind swept past Combeferre and sent his cravat free from his waistcoat. Before anyone could register what was happening, Feuilly had plunged his hands into the burning fireplace, cast the papers into the floor, and stomped the flames with the aid of his cap.

The smell of burnt paper permeated the air, and when the flames were gone and the scorched remains of the charter lay pitifully on the floor, Feuilly let out a sob of relief. Every man in the room was touched. They were stunned. Feuilly the working-man was hunched on the floor, his body as tight as an uncoiled spring, the unmistakable sign of anger apparent on his clenched fists. No one dared move.

It was Enjolras who finally lay a hand on his shoulder. Had it been any other man, Feuilly would have rewarded him with an accusing glare, but with the sight of their solid leader, he controlled himself. Enjolras regarded him carefully, as if calming a fearful mother protecting her cub.

“Feuilly,” Enjolras’s voice took on a calm lilt, “my friend, it is not what you think.”

With those words, the gloom began to dissipate from Feuilly’s face, but not completely. His guard eventually dropped, and when Enjolras beckoned him to look at the paper that he had so valiantly rescued, it read:

'Louis, by the grace of God, King of France and Navarre, to all those to whom these presents come, greetings.

Divine Providence, in recalling us to our estates after a long absence, has laid upon us great obligations. Peace was the first need of our subjects: we have employed ourselves thereto without relaxation; and that peace, so necessary for France, as well as for the remainder of Europe, is signed. A constitutional charter was called for…'

A constitutional charter, it said.

Slowly, like shafts of light penetrating clouds of smoke, it dawned on him. The pieces of paper that Courfeyrac had so enthusiastically thrown into the flames was a copy of the 1814 Charter, not rare pages of a play or history or scientific advancement, but a document which the government itself has endeavored to distribute. Feuilly’s cheeks took on a scarlet tinge, and as his realization progressed, he covered his face with a palm. “It was merely a performance,” Courfeyrac said behind him, “a dramatic gesture made for the sake of illustrating a point, though I confess it went too far. Do forgive me.” Feuilly risked looking at him; Courfeyrac was nothing but contrite, and he could not help but feel forgiving though there was nothing to forgive.

Enjolras’s palm lay heavy on his shoulder. “Though there are some people who would rather that these pages be destroyed, we would never stoop to the burning of books. Such a base act is akin to repressing liberty.” Enjolras gave him a reassuring smile. “There is no need to fear.”

Under the power of that rarely gifted smile, Feuilly clutched the inside of his jacket. There he felt the familiar and comforting feeling of the rough paper of a song pamphlet. His heart grew calm.


End file.
